The Wedding
by Catherine Antrim
Summary: Mulder and Scully get married on the run. Post season 9, pre iwtb. This was originally going to be a chapter in my other story "William" but it kind of took on a life of its own.
Dana Scully and Fox Mulder had never actually married, but Victoria Jones and John Cooper had, in a little coastal town in Maine. It was nearing late spring but the cold snow of Maine had only recently begun to melt and a few brave crocuses has stuck their heads up through the half frozen earth.

Her hair was long and brown and fell past her pale breasts. His was black and short, and sometimes he remembered to wear the brown contacts. Neither of them had had to work on losing weight for their roles, the grind of the road had done that job for them.

The had just made love, sometimes Scully was surprised that through everything their love making had survived, sometimes it felt like all they had to hold onto.

Mulders eyes were half open as his kissed her naked body, his face was peaceful in a way she wasn't used to.

"Marry me," he whispered, his tongue in her ear.

"Mulder-" she sighed.

"John," he correctly gently.

"Mulder," she said more firmly. "We can't."

Mulder had long ago stopped checking the motel rooms for bugs, and though they both often found themselves looking over their shoulders, it was more out of habit than anything else. It had been a slow realization that no one was really looking for them anymore.

It had been years now. Scully would have to put serious effort into figuring out exactly how long they had been caravanning around the North American continent.

She had forgotten her own birthday once, somewhere in the Midwestern plains. Her hair was peroxide blonde and brittle just bellow her shoulders. It was a look she hadn't particularly liked, mainly due to the upkeep.

Mulder had returned from the store with dinner: diet soda and sunflower seeds, and, of all things, a hostess snowball with a candle in it (whatever state they were in, sparklers were apparently illegal)

It wasn't until Mulder began to sing softly, off key, that she grasped what was going on.

Hot tears flew from her eyes, confusing her as much a Mulder, who stopped singing abruptly, not expecting this result from his plan.

"Scully-" he moved towards her, dropping the paper plate holding snowball onto the nightstand with enough force to put the candle out . "It wasn't supposed to make your cry-"

She laughed through her tears into the cotton of his t-shirt. She wasn't sure she was even sad, but she also couldn't stop crying, the more she tried to more it over took her, choking her.

Tentatively Mulder stroked her strange new hair and kissed the top of her head. Her tears combined with laughter and he smiled, confused, and she kissed his cheek with salty lips.

"Oh god I'm so old," now she was definitely laughing, though wetly her face was still red and her blue eyes incredibly bright.

"Hey! 38 isn't so bad now! Just wait until you're 42, truly ancient."

She was 38, Mulder was 42 and somewhere out there 4 year old William was starting preschool, maybe learning to play t-ball. Scully let Mulder eat most of the snowball as she cleaned her face and tried also regain her composure.

It would seem to anyone watching, and there didn't seem to be anyone, that their journey around the country was an aimless one. Things often seemed that way when Mulder was involved. In fact, they were working. They had never stopped working.

They spent one winter in central Mexico watching the mountains for what the locals called a bruja. Scully saw only grainy videos of what could have been a witch or a trick of the light, but was happy to be away from the cold for a bit. American currency went further on a hotel south of the border and she began to get a appropriate tan for her pale haired beachy look after weeks of reading by the pool

They explored Aztec ruins dressed as tourists, khaki shorts, Mulder had on a truly awful gauzy looking shirt with pictures of palm trees and parrots that she was unsure when he had acquired. He ran his fingers over the stone lettering, as if this would bring greater understanding of it.

The thing was, Scully did understand some of it, maybe just memories from the space ship, but her hands burned when she touched it and she also couldn't move away. The back of her neck screamed. Next to her, Mulder was doing a paper rubbing off the pattern with crayons they had swiped from a diner, now thousands of miles away.

(Mulder liked to steal crayons and later m when he couldnt sleep, he would draw, poorly, on the complimentary motel notepads. He drew monsters they had seen, monsters he imagined, the crummy furniture, and, most often of all, Scully. Scully reclining on the sagging mattress, Scully asleep with her no color hair in her face, Scully on her tip toes to see the mirror while putting on make up.

Her heart would hurt when she thought of her sons pudgy hands, he also loved crayons, and his drawings were even less coordinated than Mulder's. Perhaps he had a future in modern art. And though her heart often hurt, when she looked around the dingy motel room, heard the dull thud of the people in the next room having sex, saw the steady drip of brown water in the bathroom, her head knew this was no place for a baby.)

Her hands were still burning to the Aztec ruins but somehow she felt at peace, it wasn't until her they began smoking and Mulder smelled the burnt flesh, that she was pulled away.

Back in their airy motel room (they were staying at a place called the Enchantement Lodge) Mulder put burn cream on her palms and bandaged her unsteadily, too loose despite her careful instructions.

"What happened?" He said at last, but Scully didn't know what to say.

After Mexico, or maybe before, they had spent time on the cold pacific coast, Mulder had been only somewhat helpful about explaining why, and when Scully realized their proximity to Bellefleur, Oregon, she put her foot down. In the biggest fight that they had ever had Scully threatened to turn around, to go home, not meaning a word of it. Her biggest fear wasn't for herself in Bellefleur. It was where she had lost him and he couldn't go back there.

They settled for driving through the familiar forest road where time often got lost, during the bright sunlight of day, and they were not to get out of the car. Scullys face remained pinched and her arms and legs crossed the entire drive and Mulder was sure the hairs on the back of her neck were standing up just like his.

He didn't want to admit she was right about this place, but shakily declared there was nothing for them to see here, before speeding east with no argument from Scully.

Whatever strangely drawn path they were taken was fraught with purpose, Mulder spent hours researching on computers at Internet cafes and hotel lobbies, mapping out their next route, occasional furtive contact with the lone gunman adding new legs to their journey. Scully was passed questioning his methods, whether they were based on science or fiction they both needed the semblance of order.

Mulders quest led them to all ends of the continent, to empty forests where people seemed to disappear, to Alaska to view the northern lights, across deserts and mountains. And Scully, who felt her heart was already torn apart, sometimes felt like she lost more of herself with each new road, each new fake name and box dye job.

So as Victoria, in bed beside John, she no longer bothered to ask why they were in Maine. The air smelled salty and she was reminded of the time she once tried to vacation not so far from here and instead ended up microwaving a haunted doll.

Maybe now she could finally get that vacation, she barely had dared hope, surely Mulder had something hairbrained and downright spooky in mind. Haunted lobster nets or something.

Nothing has prepared her for the ridiculousness that was coming from him now.

"I love you," he said into her hair, "why shouldn't we be married?"

Scully laughed. "Mulder we can't get married, for starters, because we are wanted by the fbi. I'm pretty sure our social security numbers appearing would still interest some people in Washington."

He was still nuzzling her, and she could feel his hardness nuzzling her leg as well. She was momentarily distracted by this but immediately pulled herself together to look sternly at him.

"Scully and Mulder and wanted," he said between kisses. "Victoria Jones and John Cooper don't have so much as a speeding ticket."

"Because they aren't real Mulder, don't you think this would draw attention to us?"

"Victoria! Or Vicky?" He pouted. "Frohike did a good job with the IDs. The social security numbers even work."

Scully still looked concerned.

"Come on Scully, I know you've always wanted to come here. And there is no talking doll to ruin your trip this time."

So he had remembered that.

"Is that why we came here?" She said. She shook her head, but was having a hard time remaining stern as he ground his pelvis into her.

"Maybe," he said, hot breathe on her neck. Scully moaned softly in response. "Is that a yes?"

"Shut up Mulder," she said, giving in.

Later, Scully emerged from the bathroom in a floral blue sundress that was neither very bridal nor very Scully.

"Well this is old and blue," said said, looking at the fraying hem in the mirror.

"Scully!" Mulder buried his face in the pillows. "It's bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!"

Scully didn't bother asking when he had become superstitious and pulled her long gray coat over the dress with a groan.

"Are we really doing this?"

"Do you want me to get down on one knee again?"

"God no," Scully was smiling though, her blue eyes sparking under some kind of shimmery powder she had put on them. Mulder tried to kiss her and this time she stopped him.

"John I thought we were waiting for marriage!"

Mulder laughed and handed her her sandals. "In that case hurry up."

Once inside the beat up Volvo they had purchased outside of Reno Mulder moved with purpose.

"Where are we going," she said raising an eyebrow.

"You'll see, Vicky."

The highway curved by the sea shore and the sun was getting lower in the sky. It was cold but Scully rolled down her window and let the sea breeze rip through her hair as she looked out at the purple of the ocean. It was moments they had to live for now. Moments when they felt like they could breath again. Time hadn't healed her wounds yet but everyday the pain seemed to wear down slightly, to sting a little less. As things faded into memory she felt maybe she could go on.

Riding along the coast of Maine next to Mulder, her Mulder, in his stupid sunglasses, she felt dormant pangs in her stomach she had nearly forgotten how to feel.

They pulled into the driveway of a cottage beside a light house, each of its windows had an empty flower box and the big front gardens were mostly barren too, though on closer inspected Scully saw the knuckles of daffodils and tulips poking above the soil.

Both the cottage and light house were perched on the edge of a dune, and bellow she could see rocks and foamy water.

"Muld- John- it's beautiful."

So Victoria and John were married on the beach by the lighthouse. The seashell inn and breakfast advertised itself to be the best place to elope in Maine, no doubt how Mulder had found it, but the couple that owned it said they were the first of the season.

"The house is empty, except me and George, and we sleep all the way at the other end by the lighthouse," said the woman, Ellen, with a wink. "Plenty of privacy."

George did the ceremony himself, it was simple and vaguely Christian and they didn't have rings, but Mulder/John kissed Victoria/Scully for two of the sweetest minutes of her life. Ellen and a couple of local fishermen were witnesses and Mulder insisted on carrying her over the doorstep of the house that wasn't even theirs.

They drank champagne in the overly decorated living room, watched by a jungle of porcelain figurines. Ellen and George made a toast to their health and even Mulder was holding back tears (Scully had not stopped crying throughout any of the process)

A few times, many years later, when both their names had been cleared, Mulder had asked her if they should really get married. It might make things easier, at least at tax season, or when she added his name to the deed on the house that they had originally had to purchase in her name alone. Scully always shrugged. She wasn't against it, they might get around to going down to the court house and making things official at some point, but it didn't seem terribly important, there was always something else to do. Besides she had already had the most perfect wedding she could imagine, though it was surrounded by the darkest part of her life.

They had made love that night in the seashell inn, to the gentle sounds of the ocean, their lips heavy with champagne.


End file.
